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1912 
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Creation 
of a ftege 

and Short ipoems 




By 

ETHEL MoBAIN CLARKE 



CREATION OF A ROSE 

AND 

SHORT POEMS 




By 
ETHEL McBAIN CLARKE 






Copyright, August 1912. 
Ethel McBain Clarke. 



©CU317812 



CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 



CONFLICT. 

♦fflLI '- who, born with heritage of love and peace 

Faces his life with equilibrium of strength for 
mortal joy and woe; 
Reaches his goal in life victorious, does well — 
He adds a pillar to a nation's strength. 
But he, who, born in atmosphere of strife, 
Faces his life with songs of discord ringing in his ears, 
Struggles and falls, and, writhing in his pain, 
Reaches his goal — though half his life be done, 
Does better — he has fought the greater fight, 
And marks of conflict may be seen upon his brow. 



CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 

A LESSON PROM THE SONG. 

44*fttE Bird With a Broken Pinion" — 
^** The choir sang the strain — 
Over and over in childish years 
I chanted its refrain. 

Then I went away from the little church, 
With its lessons of hones and fears, 
Into a world of greater things, 
And paths of joy and tears. 

A life of austere purity 

I met as I passed along, 

And I thought again of the lesson 

Taught in that old, old song: 

Yet I heard her mock at a fallen life 

That was left to cringe and die, — 

While she sang of the bird with a broken wing, 

That would never soar so high. 

Then I met with one who, erring, fell, 

Yet rose to life e'en higher; 

And the light that shone in her saddened eyes 

Was not of mortal fire: 

I saw her bend o'er a waif forlorn 

Lost in the busy throng; 

And grateful eyes gazed after her 

As she hurriedly passed along. 

I oft rejoice in the way of life 
Where chastened fellows have trod, 
That "The Bird With a Broken Pinion" 
Came not from the lips of God: 
For it seems his wisdom teaches 
That those words by mortal pen 
More fitting are to birds that soar 
Than to souls of men. 



CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 



DEAR ONE, GONE. 

^**HE rain comes softly down, 

w Softly down; 
There is a mournful sadness in the sound; 
For it fell thus on that day, 
When they bore thee soft away. 
Longer here thou mighst not stay, 
Dear one, gone. 

The wind sighs softly round, 

Softly round. 
There is a dreary heartache with the sound; 
For it sighs above the tomb, 
Where, beneath the shadowy gloom, 
Thou wast laid but far too soon, 

Dear one, gone. 

The sun shines softly bright, 

Softly bright. 
There is a ray of comfort in the light; 
For it brings me close to thee. 
Once again thy face I see — 
Beauteous now, from pain set free — 

Dear one, gone. 



CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 



RECOMPENSE. 

^*HERE is a recompense for those who die, 

^■^ When Life is young, that robs death of its sting; 

Their heritage is Youth immortalized; 

Subtle its poignancy as grief is keen; 

Forgotten are the dead — a little while 

As Life sails merrily down pleasant streams, 

But when its luster pales at eventide, 

The wayward heart returns unto its dreams. 

I think of two, long past the way of youth; 

Together will they cross the final years; 

No breach of faith has marred their wedded love, 

Nor sorrow sought its sanctitude for tears; 

And yet between these two there often steals 

A shadow vision of the past, that seems 

To cast its witching beauty over one, 

In youthful charm — as from a world of dreams. 



CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 

SONG OF THE WINDS. 

®H! the balmy winds of early spring, 
That sob, and murmur, and laugh and sing; 
That ever whisper in mirthful rhyme 
Of the mating of birds in Southern clime; 
They may turn the thoughts to the good and true, 
But they leave a sense of yearning, too, 
That robs my heart of its somber rest, 
And I love the fierce North wind the best. 

Oh! the summer wind that is soft and low, 
Most gentle of all the winds that blow; 
Which woos forth love with a charm, a kiss, 
That enthralls some heart in its dream of bliss — 
I have heard its pleading o'er and o'er, 
But it does not charm as it did before; 
No more it lulls my heart to rest, 
And I love the fierce North wind the best. 

Oh! the Autumn wind that softly sighs 

Of the flower that lives, and droops and dies; 

That recalls some long-forgotten face 

Pull of beauty, and love, and grace; 

As the face recalls the past the while, 

Old memories stir with faded smile; 

Then the tears arise at Grief's behest, 

And I love the fierce North wind the best. 

The wind that comes with a shriek, a roar, 
That sweeps each fluttering leaf before, 
That mockingly sings, around, above, 
And laughs at the falseness of human love; 
While it fiercely blows, and fiercer yet 
It fiercely whispers, forget — forget; 
In its truculent call my heart finds rest, 
And I love the fierce North wind the best. 



CREATION OP A EOSE AND SHORT POEMS 



AS IN LIFE. 

^•^HREE players sat at a game of chance — 
Vir They were Flattery, Love and Truth; 
They played a game which we call Fate — 
Each game tied 'till the hour was late — 
Each trick went down on Life's long slate, 
And well each played, in sooth. 

Love was a player fair to see, 

And held winning cards to play; 

But as the hours went on apace, 

He glanced from Truth to Flattery's face; 

Flattery smiled with errant grace, 

While Truth had naught to say. 

Then Love forgot that Truth was there, 
And Flattery did the same; 
Each chance to win they let slip by, 
Each scorned to win and ceased to try, 
Forgetting that stakes were sure and high, 
And so Truth won the game. 

Then Truth threw a scornful word at Love, 

And Love saw Flattery's stare; 

Love moaned, and his face grew white and set; 

Flattery smiled as she smileth yet; 

Truth had no smile, and no regret, 

For she knew that the game was fair. 



CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 



ONE LIFE TO LIVE. 

®NE life to live, a soul to give, and a little time to 
pray; 
But always the heart may start aright in remaining 

light of day; 
So turn from the memory of wasted years, its page of 

Folly's trace; 
And join the ranks of those who strive, and win for 
yourself a place. 

There's always room to begin anew in the lines of those 

who toil, 
And the spirit stayed by fellowship will rarely bend to 

foil; 
Then perhaps the years which foolishly were cast to the 

wings of Time, 
You may find a chance to recompense, when the record 

of trust is thine. 

For it isn't so much the wrong you've done, as the 

right you will not do, 
That will count in the last great reckoning, when the 

Master speaks with you; 
And it isn't the years you give to Him, but the spirit 

with which you serve, 
That will place you in line with those who win and best 

His praise deserve. 

One life to live, a soul to give, and a little time to 

pray; 
But always the heart may start aright in remaining light 

of day: 
And he who gives his uttermost to each remaining 

year, 
May read in the eyes of greater men that his past 

account is clear. 



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CREATION OF A EOSE AND SHORT POEMS 



HER EYES WERE BROWN. 

TfTfl E wandered where the tide rolled in 
1W§ And lightly beat the shore; 
Her smile was blithe, her olive cheeks 
Could ne'er have blushed the more — 
The wind caught up her sunny curls, 
And tossed them gaily round, 
She lifted laughing eyes to mine — 
— And oh! her eyes were brown 

I stood there when a dainty yacht 

Tossed on the restless tide, 

And she was there — she sailed away 

Another's winsome bride: 

She said goodby, her hands outstretched. 

My heart sank sadly down, 

A sadness dimmed the laughing eyes, 

— And oh, her eyes were brown. 

I stood there when the yacht returned, 
My heart had ceased to mourn; 
A little one with shining curls 
Across the deck was borne; 
I caught the youngster in my arms, 
Her soft curls fluttered round, 
A blessing trembled on my lips — 
— But oh! her eyes were brown. 



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CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 



THE DREAMER. 

+f| sat at the side of the schoolmaster's desk 
■■ And gazed on the pupils he taught; 
And from all of the faces I singled out one 
As the face of the dreamer I sought. 
I was there when in one of her lessons she failed, 
And she sobbed from the depth of her heart; 
But bravely she took up her slate and erased 
The wrong lesson from finish to start. 

I saw her again in the schoolroom of Life, 

And I knew she had failed in a test; 

I saw the bright head bent low in its grief, 

Yet I knew that my silence was best; 

I saw her when bravely she took up Life's slate, 

As before, in her lessons at school; 

But she could not blot out the wrong lesson she wrote, 

For the cross of its lines was too cruel. 

I saw her again in the high noon of Life 

When the quest of the dreamer was still; 

And I knew she had won what is better than dreams, 

By the strength of her courage and will. 

Then I stretched forth my hand, and she gave me a smile 

That wiped out the long distance of years: 

But I knew that the triumph which shone on her brow, 

She had bought at the price of her tears. 



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CREATION OF A EOSE AND SHORT POEMS 



KINDNESS. 

«f| think that kindness is the greatest gift of any 
■■ gifts that be; 

I wonder why 'tis not more often given; 
It is not costlier to the poor than to the rich; 
It need not favor most the learned mind — 
Tis ever free; 

I wish that every gift from every friend 
Would merely kindness be. 



HITHERTO. 

TfIH HEN Youth ' s last echo calls t0 me > 

%W* And old age opes the door; 

When I shall sit and muse and think 

Of many things before; 

One thing I crave the power to do, 

Sincerely as I should, 

— To look into the eyes of Youth, 

And say that Life is good. 



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CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 



CREATION OF A ROSE. 

+g| WAS accompanying a friend of mine through an old 
™ cemetery near a town in the Middle West, when he 
stopped before a grave marked by a wooden cross, and 
possibly by its appearance of isolation and neglect. My 
friend, whose religious views tend somewhat toward 
Universalism, indicated by a motion of his hand that 
he had reached a spot for which he had come in quest. 

On glancing at the nameless grave my attention 
turned from the wooden cross to a shrub, bearing a 
white rose, which grew at the head of the grass-grown 
mound of earth. I saw at once that the rose must at 
one time have known rare cultivation; indeed, it then 
had every appearance of the most delicately cultured 
flower knowing only the touch of the skilled florist. I 
was about to express some such sentiment when my 
friend began to speak. 

"I occasionally come to this spot, and at each recur- 
ring visit find that this shrub bears but one rose. Each 
rose seems more perfect than its predecessor, yet I be- 
lieve the grave is never tended, and is visited, rarely 
only, by a few aged residents of the village who know 
the story of the old man who was laid here twenty-two 
years ago." 

My friend seated himself at the foot of the grave, 
over which the long shadows of the day were already 
seeking their transient repose, and I followed his ex- 
ample. 

"I planted the shrub," he continued, "when a boy 
of sixteen years. I did so at the request of the man 
whose grave is here, and whose death disclosed the 
story of a strange life." 

Then at my request my friend related the follow- 
ing narrative: 



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CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 

"I first knew him as an eccentric old man who 
passed the late years of his life in our midst, and in 
whom our village was furnished with one of those anom- 
alous characters found in every rural locality, but in 
this case differing in one particular way from other 
characters/ inasmuch that none of the villagers could 
claim his acquaintance. He lived about one mile from 
the town center, in a cabin which I believe no inhabi- 
tant of the village, save myself, ever entered until after 
the old man's death. The cabin was not visible from 
the road and the cleared portion of his property was sur- 
rounded at the back and each side by a stretch of woods 
which he never cut away and in which no one tres- 
passed. No passerby, however, failed to notice that the 
spot was inhabited by mortal being, for the entire front 
yard was filled with a patch of bloom that was the 
grudging pride of the village. His hyacinths, mari- 
golds, verbenas and geraniums were the envy of the 
women, and the little children, who peered through the 
high picket fence surrounding his home, were not more 
wistful-eyed than the dewey pansies that bloomed in 
the old garden. 

"There was one portion of the patch of bloom 
which was considerably elevated, having the appearance 
of being set apart from other portions, and in which 
the old gardener was known to spend the largest share 
of his working hours. This portion, visible from the 
road, was centered by a shrub which each season bore 
one white rose. The gardener seemed to take a special 
pride in the rose and it was rumored that at times he 
was seen kneeling before it in devout worship. 

"He seldom gave away a flower. Instead he carried 
them to a neighboring village, receiving for them, I 
afterward learned, a small pittance. He usually jour- 
neyed to the town at night, returning at an early morn- 
ing hour to resume his zeal for the creation of beauti- 



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CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 

ful flowers. But, while his every move was mysterious, 
he was never molested by man, woman or child, a fact 
which I believe was due to the personality of the man 
which bespoke a timid and yet dignified reserve. I do 
not suppose that I would ever have made his acquaint- 
ance had it not been that my father and I at one time 
came upon the gardener lying prone in the road where 
he had fallen in some state of physical exhaustion. My 
father lifted him in his strong arms — at the same time 
bidding me pick up a basket of flowers which had 
fallen from the old man's hands — and carried him to the 
gate of the strangest abode in the village. Then by 
skillful measures my father restored the failing con- 
sciousness, and when the gardener had recovered suffi- 
ciently to be left alone we quietly departed. 

"From that time the old villager always saluted us 
in passing and finally came to converse at times with 
my father who was quick to respond. We learned that 
he never attended church, a fact which, strangely enough, 
did not seem to horrify my father who was a man of 
stern religious beliefs. Instead he evinced an admira- 
tion and liking for the village character, and gradually 
a sort of conversational habit was established between 
them. 

"At one time the gardener invited my father and me 
beyond the gate that stood as a barrier to the public's 
intrusion. He took us through his long rows of hya- 
cinths, marigolds, verbenas and geraniums, and lastly 
he led us toward the garden spot where bloomed the 
white rose, detaining us when we would have advanced 
to gaze upon its beauty, yet inviting, almost fearfully, 
our criticism of the flower, which he said long years 
of study, patience and love had created. When my 
father stated in sincerity that it was the most perfect 
rose he had ever beheld the old gardener seemed 
moved and confessed that he had spent the greater part 



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CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 

of his life in an effort to create a white rose, the purity 
of which w r ould not be exceeded by the driven snow, 
and which would ever face the setting sun. I thought 
his remarks concerning the rose eccentric, and half ex- 
pected my father to make some comment in accordance 
with my mental criticism, which, however, he did not do. 
After that I never saw the white rose, blooming apart 
in its singular beauty, but what I connected it in thought 
with the secret life of its earthly creator. 

"On the death of my father the old gardener, 
though not outwardly expressing sympathy, made me 
understand that he missed the occasional visits in which 
the two had been wont to indulge, and one morning on 
visiting my father's grave, I found a garland of flowers, 
bearing no name of its giver, but probably placed there 
in the quiet of the night by one who never by word or 
sign admitted any knowledge of the token of memory. 

"After that I often stopped to watch the old man 
at his work and as often was invited into his garden. I 
think that in a measure the liking he had had for my 
father was transferred to me, for although he never 
asked me to repeat a visit, I believe he never found me 
in his way and, though merely a boy, I found a keen 
pleasure in watching him at his work. He had many 
flowers of hybrid species, which, in that rural locality 
was rare. I think he loved all his flowers for he often 
talked to them while about his work, but I liked best 
to watch his care of the white rose. He never invited 
me to come into the enclosed plot of ground where the 
rose grew but I was allowed to admire it from a short 
distance and he told me a little of its history. The 
shrub had developed from a wild sprig which he had 
found isolated on a distant highway. By some peculiar 
means of hybridizing he had brought about the creation 
of a rose, the beauty and purity of color in which I never 
saw equalled in any other flower, and which, as though 



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CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 

yielding to the strange insistence of its mortal creator, 
always bloomed facing the west. In my growing ac- 
quaintance with the old gardener I came to form a cer- 
tain religious sentiment concerning the rose; that is, 
I never saw it blooming in its white beauty but what 
I thought of the teachings of my father, and certain 
drowsy ambitions of my youth struggled toward ma- 
turity. I think the old gardener was conscious of my 
interest in the rose and I increased in his favor thereby. 
Once I grew bold enough to inquire why he had ever 
trained the rose to face the setting sun, and he replied, 
unguardedly, I believe: 'There are many for whom 
there will be no tomorrow, yet who walk toward the 
last sunset unafraid; such return to the dust from 
whence they sprung — but the rose — who shall say from 
whence it sprung and that its bloom shall not be im- 
mortal?' Words over which I marveled greatly as a boy. 

"I was pleased when one day he invited me into his 
cabin which I found a small but cultured place of resi- 
dence, although lacking somewhat in those things ade- 
quate to physical comfort. On entering I guessed at 
once the whyfore of his apparent inclination to spend 
much of his time alone, for the inner walls of the cabin 
were lined with volumes of good books, I say 'good,' for 
most of the books were the works of eminent authors, 
and the sacred scriptures occupied a prominent place 
on the rude shelving. There were other books with 
which I was not familiar at that time. An orphan, as I 
then was, and having been left to the care of guardians 
who allowed me to spend my time greatly as I pleased, 
I at once expressed to the old gardener my desire to 
spend my Sundays at his home in preference to attend- 
ing church regularly, as was my wont, and I was sur- 
prised when he sternly rebuked me. This puzzled me 
for I knew he never attended church, and I had never 



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CREATION OF A ROSE AND SHORT POEMS 

heard him express an inclination toward any form of 
religion. 

"Later, I occasionally visited his cabin, usually to- 
ward the close of day, for it was then that he rested an 
hour from his day's labor among his flowers, and it is 
as then that I best remember him. He used to draw up 
his arm chair to the west door of the cabin, and sit with 
eyes fixed on the setting sun, gazing half wistfully but 
calmly at its fading light until it sank below the dis- 
tant horizon. After sundown I always took my way 
toward home, for he then began preparations for carry- 
ing a basket of his flowers to the neighboring town. 

"So the years went on and one day came the news 
of the old villager's death. Passersby had seen him ly- 
ing motionless against a little raised garden spot, and 
on entering had found that life was no more. I was 
among the last in the village to learn of his death and 
with the imparted knowledge I was informed that the man 
of eccentricities had left a letter, with a written request, 
directed to me, and to be carried out immediately fol- 
lowing his death. The letter made known many facts 
of the life of the hermit and fanciful gardener. 

"It developed that, by the tending of his patch of 
bloom and sale of his flowers he had accumulated a 
small fortune, which by a strange will he had left en- 
tirely to charity. His many books he had bequeathed 
to me in remuneration for the carrying out of a last re- 
quest which he had made. It developed further, that 
born a sensitive and impressionable child, he had on 
the death of his parents in his infancy, been placed under 
the influence of an atheistic guardian and sole educator. 
That influence had accompanied him through life and 
he had found it impossible to break the bonds of its 
fastness. In a personal God he had never believed and 
in Nature he had found his only solution of the riddle 
of Life and Death. From all his beds of flowers the 



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CEEATION OF A ROSE AND StlORT POEMS 

gardener had singled out one shrub, bearing a white 
rose of which he wrote thus to me: 

" 'I have not the faith of the believer and I have 
been taught to think that my life goes out utterly at the 
end. I have one last request to make, namely, that this 
rose be planted at my head, facing the setting sun, as in 
life I have trained it to grow. I have dared to believe 
that it will live so long as the world shall last and that 
unshed tears from eyes that could not see light will 
prove sufficient nourishment for its growth. I desire 
that it shall be tended by no mortal hand, for it is not 
as other material things.' " 

Here my friend paused in his narrative, and we 
both, with one instinct, glanced at the white rose. Then 
suddenly I exclaimed: 

"But his request — that it face the setting sun — 
look, the rose faces the East!" 

"Your words conclude the story," my friend an- 
swered as we rose to go. "I carried out his last request, 
planting at the head of his grave the shrub, with the 
rose still in bloom. Contrary to expectation, it contin- 
ued to bloom during the remainder of the season. But 
the next year there bloomed at the head of the grave 
a new rose that had turned to face the East." 

There was a long pause, then he added: 

"It is a curious fancy, but I have often wished 
the old gardener knew that the rose is facing the sun- 
rise — and I sometimes think he does." 




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